


And She Kissed the Moon

by laughingd0g



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (they are disgustingly happy together), Banter, Campfires, Camping, F/F, Friendly Bets, Ginny is not impressed (yes she is), Harry and Draco are betrothed, Kissing, M/M, Pansy is gorgeous and she knows it, Pureblood Traditions, Star/moongazing, creative use of the disillusionment charm, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g/pseuds/laughingd0g
Summary: Who thought it would be a good idea to bring Parkinson camping? (Malfoy.) From the beginning it’s been “my nails” this and “blisters” that.So Ginny makes a bet with her.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 67
Collections: Very Drarry Summer Vibes 2020





	And She Kissed the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [triggerlil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/gifts).



> Lily. Did you really think you could get away with modding this exchange without receiving a gift of your own? (Or: _Sorry there's no MCD in this one, but my original idea was not one I could execute at this time, so have this fluffy-ish Ginsy fic instead._ )
> 
> But seriously. You never cease to amaze me. Your sheer amount of _talent_ is incredible--and everything you do to build our community? It is so appreciated. It's an honor to be your friend. Thank you.
> 
> Biiiig thanks to T and Z for the eleventh hour beta reads!! And to F for help with the summary! You are gems, all of you.

In hindsight, Ginny wondered why they chose camping when none of them liked it.

Harry disliked it for obvious reasons. Ginny had heard the story of his Horcrux-hunting experience from Ron and Hermione, of those distraught and sleepless weeks.

Malfoy—(he and Ginny refused to call each other by their first names, even in their pseudo-friendship)—Malfoy was terrified of anything with wings or a tail. Or, really, anything with more than two legs.

And Parkinson? Ginny wondered why anyone had thought of bringing her. From the beginning it had been “my nails” this and “blisters” that. Malfoy—the “anyone” who had thought of bringing her—snapped at her more than the rest of them. Harry, meanwhile, had lapsed into resigned silence. Ginny had tried to shut Parkinson down a couple of times, then decided the hysterics she’d received in response weren’t worth it and ignored Parkinson’s complaints after that. Instead, Ginny began to point out sights along their walk with aggressive cheerfulness.

Harry gave her relieved looks; he’d begged her to get along with the Slytherins. Parkinson, on the other hand, knew what Ginny was up to and shot her little resentful glances, though she couldn’t really complain because, technically, Ginny was being polite and getting along.

Ginny took special satisfaction from the glares Parkinson directed her way when, late in the afternoon, Ginny produced snacks from her bag. Harry and Malfoy accepted them gratefully, though Parkinson apparently couldn’t stoop so low as to accept, and so she sat silently while they ate and pretended to carve dirt out from under her nails (there was no dirt; she refused to touch anything that could conceivably grow a vegetable).

And, anyway. As far as Ginny was concerned, the whole trip was pointless (though out of all of them, she didn’t _mind_ camping). Harry and Malfoy would be married in less than a month. For one thing, no one had followed the musty tradition of sleeping chastely under the full moon with their betrothed in over a hundred years, maybe more. For another? They could have done this outside the Manor and enjoyed hot baths, a nice meal, a blister-free Pansy Parkinson, and the absence of complaining. Besides, Harry and Malfoy were adults and didn’t need chaperones to ensure that they didn’t shag on their Sweet Moon.

Also: the two of them had obviously already had loads of sex, so the point of remaining pure until the consummation was moot, anyway.

~~~~

“Let’s stop here a moment,” Harry said.

Malfoy heaved a sigh. “Must we? We’re nearly there. Or we’d better be.”

Harry gave Malfoy a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. Ginny nearly stuck her finger down her throat at the sight.

“Yes,” Harry said in a voice dripping with patience, even as sweat dripped down the sides of his face. “We are. Or, we should be. I just want to check to make sure.”

“But we just checked the map an hour ago, and we haven’t left the path.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. Malfoy was being more of a tit than usual; obviously Parkinson had rubbed off on him.

Harry fixed Malfoy with a look. “Yeah. But. Some of us need to catch our breath.”

Malfoy, who had been lightly panting for the last couple of miles, made a pinched expression. Harry laughed and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Oh, Merlin! Absolutely not! No!” Malfoy cried, pushing a sweaty Harry away with one hand while furiously wiping the side of his own face with the other. Harry laughed harder.

“I think you missed a bit,” Ginny said to Malfoy, pointing to the side of her face.

Malfoy made a sound of disgust and swiped his hand over his forehead, as if he wasn’t covered in a sheen of his own sweat.

“Circe, you two are disgusting,” Pansy said.

“Feeling left out, Parkinson? Here.” Ginny wiped a hand over her own face and reached toward her.

Parkinson shrieked. “Get away from me with that!”

Ginny cackled.

“You’re like a wild animal,” Parkinson sniffed. She waved her wand, casting a wordless charm over herself. Ginny wasn’t sure if it was a cooling charm or some kind of drying or cleaning charm. Out of the four of them, she was the only one who wasn’t shining, which was a pity. Ginny wondered if there was some way to mess up her perfectly coiffed hair and clean skin without breaking her promise to Harry. Or, without getting _caught_ breaking her promise to Harry.

Holding Parkinson’s gaze, Ginny grinned and licked the sweat from her fingers. Parkinson’s pretty eyes bugged.

Harry, bent over his map, didn’t notice, and Malfoy was busy casting his own cleaning charm. _Merlin,_ the Slytherins were such twats.

“Come on,” Ginny said. “Let’s go, so we can get this tent up before it’s dark.”

She took off down the path, hitching her bag up more comfortably on her shoulders. The other three crashed after her. 

“Thank _Salazar_ we’re apparating back,” Malfoy muttered.

Ginny silently agreed.

~~~~

Of course, it was left to Ginny to put up the tent. Harry and Draco disappeared into the woods, ostensibly to collect wood (”You mean, to handle some?” Ginny had said), leaving her and Parkinson. Parkinson wouldn’t lift her pinky finger to help, though that didn’t stop her from sitting back and telling Ginny how she should do things as Ginny put up the tent.

“By all means, Weasley, if you want us all to be blasted with the sun in the morning, face the tent toward the east.”

Ginny dropped her arms to her side but didn’t turn. She didn’t want to see Parkinson’s smug face. “I’m surprised you know which way east is.” But she turned the tent so that the door faced west.

“Good shout. Now we can watch the sunset. Very romantic,” Parkinson drawled.

Ginny ignored her and lifted her wand. She tolerated a half an hour of Parkinson critiquing the spot Ginny had chosen for the tent—“It’s all jagged rock underneath. Do you _want_ to break our feet?”—the charms Ginny used to waterproof it—“We’ll be soaked by morning”—her atmospheric charms—“I’m going to wake in a sweat bath. Or frozen to my cot. Honestly.”

“Well. If you’d like to give a practical demonstration,” Ginny said sweetly.

“Oh no,” Parkinson said. “I think you’re taking directions very well.”

Parkinson lounged against a mossy rock. She made it look comfortable and classy, like she was lounging on Harry and Malfoy’s chaise longue, one slender ankle crossed over the other. Her eyes were half-lidded. She wore a white sheer blouse over a camisole with lace trim. Her trousers had cargo pockets. She wore boots that didn’t have heels but definitely weren’t intended for hiking. She looked like Ginny’s idea of dressing up, though it was Parkinson’s concession for hiking. Ginny resented her.

Catching Ginny’s glare, Parkinson raised one pencil-thin—and probably penciled-in—eyebrow. Ginny snorted. Parkinson had a way of studying at her that was condescending and intense, like she was constantly judging everything Ginny did. Or maybe it was a case of resting bitch face. Ginny was actually darkly amused by it. Growing up the youngest in a family of men, and having survived the war, and playing competitive sports with other women had made Ginny pretty much immune to that kind of judgment. She knew who she was. Mostly, Parkinson’s silent judgment amused her. Like, who did Parkinson honestly think she was?

It was the not-silent judgment that wound Ginny up.

“Are you sure you want to place the fire pit there? We’ll be smoked out of the tent before we even get into it.”

Ginny threw down her arms. But she wouldn’t let Parkinson defeat her. So she went back to putting the fire pit together, and then she cast a strong containment charm around it to protect it from the wind, with another charm to draw the smoke up like a chimney.

Even as Ginny began to arrange rocks and log sections as seats around the pit, she wondered why she bothered. Parkinson would cast a cushioning charm for herself, no doubt, and Malfoy—the ponce—would insist on setting up an extendable chair. And Harry would just as soon sit on the ground.

As she walked slowly in a circle, arranging makeshift seats, she caught sight of Parkinson. There was a slightly different coolness to her expression, her chin tilted back, as if sizing Ginny up. It wasn’t the first time Ginny had caught the look on her face. In between the snide complaints and the tirades and the judgmental shrieking, there were times—like these—when Ginny found Parkinson watching her. It reminded Ginny almost of a cat lazily regarding prey, deciding whether it was hungry enough to go on the prowl. Ginny actually didn’t mind those looks. Something hard and hungry inside of her responded. In those moments, Ginny wanted to tackle Parkinson, wanted to scuffle, to claw her, to eat her.

The fact was, Ginny didn’t dislike Parkinson. Not really. Not for years. Like Malfoy, Parkinson had a stick up her arse, and there was no cure for that. But she’d apologized to all of them—her, Ron, Hermione, and especially Harry—in a humble, dignified manner that Ginny almost hadn’t been able to keep a straight face through.

Since then, she’d come along on group outings as a female extension of Malfoy, except less polite and more cutting with her barbs. On those occasions, when they were all relaxed and a little tipsy, Parkinson was actually a good laugh. For one thing, she was one of the few people who could out-Malfoy Malfoy. She cut him down smoothly and gracefully, like a sharp blade, so that she had already delivered the blow and moved on before Malfoy’s eyes widened in recognition of the hit and his mouth stretched into an incredulous frown.

Parkinson had class, though Ginny would never admit that out loud. She had six brothers; she knew how to guard her own thoughts. Parkinson had moved on with her life despite the shitty things she’d said and done in school—the worst of which was to offer Harry up to Snake Face. Once she’d apologized, she acted as if that had never happened, and Harry had never brought it up again, and secretly, Ginny admired Parkinson’s audacity.

The best part of being sort-of-friends with Parkinson was that, now and then, she and Ginny got into a groove—sometimes with Hermione, too—and ganged up on the boys to take them down verbally.

That, and Parkinson mixed the best drinks.

She also had good taste in music, which was a fucking relief next to the disaster of her parents, her siblings, and Harry. (And Hermione, who preferred classical.)

She was also actually pretty fucking clever and interesting to talk to, and funny as hell, when she wasn’t being so precious about a camping trip.

Also? She was stunning, and she knew it.

“You realize you’re the only one who will be using one of those stumps as a seat, correct?” Parkinson said as Ginny finished placing the seats around the fire pit.

Ginny tucked her wand into her bun. “Let’s make a bet.”

“Oh?” Despite the bored-seeming drawl, Ginny could hear the interest in Parkinson’s voice. Parkinson loved a good bet. “That the boys will shag before the night is out? Because we both know that’s happening.”

“No. I bet I can make you shut up for ten minutes.”

Parkinson scoffed. “Believe me. There’s nothing you can do to make me stop talking.”

“Oh yeah? I mastered hexes in my teens. My brothers run Wizard Wheezes.”

An unladylike snort. “Please. I spent my formative years in the Slytherin girls’ dorms. I’ve been Draco’s best friend practically since we were in nappies. Anything that can be tried, has.”

“Then bet on it. Unless you think you’ll lose.”

“Weasley. I wouldn’t want to set _you_ up to lose. I promised Draco I’d play nicely.”

“Just a friendly bet.”

Ginny held Parkinson’s gaze steadily. Parkinson regarded her, the lazy-cat look on her face sharpening.

“What are your terms?”

Ginny didn’t have to pause to think. “If I win, you won’t say another thing about your appearance for the rest of the trip. No blisters, chipped nails, sweat, sleep deprivation. Yours?”

“Hmm. If I win, you stop complaining about my complaining. I want to gripe in peace.”

From the glint in Parkinson’s eyes, Ginny got the sense that Pansy was trying to be nice with her terms. They both were. The terms were tame compared to bets they’d made in the past. That was all right. They were here for Harry and Malfoy, after all, and the whole point of this bet was hopefully to keep Ginny from strangling Parkinson, which would be good for all of them. Ginny really wanted to put her hands around the other woman’s neck.

They shook on it. Parkinson actually deigned to unfold from her position on the ground to do so. Her hand was smooth and warm. She brought with her a faint smell of floral perfume. Ginny squeezed a little harder than necessary.

Parkinson narrowed her eyes. Ginny smiled sweetly.

Harry and Malfoy weren’t back yet, which didn’t surprise her. She folded back the tent’s door flap, stepped inside, and began to secure the walls, which were cloth, just like the rest of the tent. They’d been charmed to muffle sound between them, but it had been a couple of years since the tent had been used, and the charms needed to be recast.

“Oh please, you aren’t using _that_ charm, are you? I’ll be able to hear Potter snoring as if he’s in bed with me.”

Without looking up from the cloth wall in her hand, she flicked her wand toward Parkinson and threw a silencing charm, which—true to her word—Pansy deflected easily.

And so it began. Ginny threw hexes and Parkinson deflected them. In one instance, Ginny succeeded in silencing Parkinson for about a minute before Parkinson wordlessly ended the spell. Ginny had to give it to her: when Parkinson actually lifted her wand to cast something, she did so gracefully and efficiently.

Ginny finished working on the walls, and—in between casting hexes at Parkinson—checked that the beds were securely stuck to the floor. In the past, they’d had the tendency to come untethered and float toward the ceiling of the tent. Ginny reinforced the sticking charms on them. And if she didn’t pay as much attention with Parkinson’s—well, she _had_ been doing all the work on her own, and she was tired by now, wasn’t she?

While she was in her own room settling her things into place, she pulled several of her brothers’ products from her bag and secreted them into her pockets.

She tried the Chocolate Frogs in the Throat on Parkinson while in the kitchen, but Parkinson still wasn’t accepting any food Ginny offered her. 

“You did all that work, you deserve them both,” Parkinson said. 

At which Ginny “accidentally” dropped the frogs she’d opened, and they hopped into the space behind the cabinets. “Oops.” 

She hoped the boys didn’t find them later, although it wouldn’t be a travesty if Malfoy ate one (or two).

“Ah, the last of our chocolate stores,” Parkinson sighed mockingly. “Whatever shall we do?”

Next, Ginny tried the WWW Remote Control Mute Button when she was going through the trunk of truly random stuff in the living room. Over the years, the trunk had become the dumping ground for an assortment of items brought on Weasley camping trips. Ginny pretended to dig the remote control from the detritus of Muggle artifacts, blankets, and Crup treats (but really, she pulled it out of her cargo pocket).

“Ron was looking for this,” Ginny said, turning toward Parkinson with the remote in hand, but Parkinson already had a shield charm up, so when Ginny jammed the button, the silencing hex bounced off and hit the tent wall.

“That was too obvious. You’re getting sloppy, Weasley.”

Ginny shrugged. “Worth a try.” She tossed the remote into the trunk. She pushed herself to her feet. Might as well start dinner. Harry and Draco would be useless for the night, and Parkinson was a lost cause. Ginny would be happy to leave them all to fend for themselves, except someone in the group had to be an adult, and today—as usual—that fell on her.

On her way to the kitchen, Ginny threw another hex at Parkinson, but it was half-hearted, and Parkinson didn’t even need to raise her wand in order to parry it.

“Honestly, Weasley. You might as well give up now. Save your strength. Don’t feel too bad losing, though. You hadn’t come up against me before.”

Parkinson’s voice was syrupy, and as corrosive as acid. She leaned a hip against the kitchen counter with one leg crossed over the other in a deceptively relaxed pose.

“I’m surprised,” Ginny said. “For someone who won’t lift a wand to help with setup, you put a lot of effort into anti-jinxes. And talking.”

“It’s called ‘practice.’ And you’d better get used to my voice, darling. Because you’re going to have to listen to it without complaint for the remainder of this trip.”

Parkinson’s mouth curved into a perfect smirk, complete with a dimple. The smile of the cat who’d eaten the Golden Snidget. The smile of the woman who knew she would never lose.

Ginny leaned forward to cover it with her own.

Parkinson stiffened beneath her. Ginny felt a thrill of triumph and smiled against her mouth. She braced herself to be hexed or pushed back.

A heartbeat passed, and Parkinson did nothing. She smelled like perfume and clean sweat. She was softer than Ginny imagined. The mouth wasn’t as sharp as it sounded. Her quick breaths sounded kittenish.

Another moment, and no pushback, which was interesting. So, Ginny pressed forward and licked her mouth, half in mischief, half in invitation. Her lip balm tasted like cherry.

Parkinson sucked in a breath. Then—remarkably—she relaxed under Ginny, breasts soft against Ginny’s. She opened to Ginny’s tongue, and another thrill went through Ginny as she pushed inside, her hands braced against the counter on either side of Parkinson’s hips.

Parkinson tasted clean and sharp, like a knife. A very soft knife that mewled and relaxed into Ginny’s touch. Yielding. Ginny’s hands wanted to press against her hips and pull her closer. Instead, Ginny drew back her tongue, smirked into Parkinson’s mouth, and pushed away, licking cherry flavor from her lips.

Parkinson blinked at her.

Ginny stood back, still smirking, and pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. Parkinson’s own usually-perfect hair was slightly mussed, her lips plump and shiny. She didn’t look half as wrecked as Ginny would have liked to make her. But.

With a little twirl of her wand, Ginny turned to unpack the kitchen. The motley assortment of plates, bowls, cups, and utensils would be in a jumble from being shrunk and unshrunk. Ginny spelled the cupboards open and began the work of rearranging them. She was aware of the silence behind her, the absence of anything from Parkinson: Movement. Breath. Speech.

After a minute, Parkinson pushed away from the counter. She pulled out her own wand and wordlessly began to conjure strings of bunting and fairy lights for the sitting room.

It all happened so quickly and effortlessly, it was almost all done before Ginny could register the flurry of movement: the decorations hung themselves in the sitting room, and then the dining table leapt from the wall and unfolded into place in its little alcove, followed by its chairs; comfortable armchairs settled into a loose circle in the sitting room; the bookshelf unfolded like an accordion, and a record player Ginny recognized from Parkinson’s apartment appeared on its lowest shelf.

Parkinson stood at the center of the sitting room, directing the activity with small, sure movements of her wand. She didn’t meet Ginny’s eye. The expression on her face was serious, focused.

Then the rush of movement settled, and the tent felt like a home. It made Ginny’s attempt to make a comfortable sitting area outside seem crude by comparison.

Next, Parkinson opened a handbag that must have had an extension charm on it because she called a several-course meal out of its depths: salad, roast, pudding. The roast steamed in its own protective charm.

Much better than the tinned soup Ginny had planned. 

Parkinson hadn’t said anything yet. Neither had Ginny. She eyed Parkinson, who still wouldn’t look at her, as Parkinson arranged the meal along the kitchen counter. 

Harry and Malfoy returned to the camp then. Ginny heard their crunching footsteps and the cadence of Malfoy talking. Ginny rolled her eyes. She wondered if Malfoy had got the talkativeness from Pansy, or the other way around, or if Slytherins just liked to hear the sound of their own voices.

Parkinson finally glanced at Ginny, expression inscrutable. With a twist of her wrist, Ginny cast a _tempus_. Fourteen minutes had passed in silence.

Ginny smiled.

Parkinson rolled her eyes, but there was a pink tinge to her cheeks.

Ginny stepped outside. Sure enough, Harry and Malfoy had collected only a few pieces of wood between them, maybe enough to kindle a fire, but that was it. She didn’t say a thing, only looked at Harry pointedly. He flushed and ducked his head. Malfoy blushed but stood straight, lifting his chin.

“Nice setup,” Harry said about the fire pit, while Malfoy eyed the makeshift seats Ginny had arranged around it.

“Food’s inside,” Ginny said.

“Good,” Malfoy said, and disappeared into the tent, still blushing. 

Harry followed them in. “Wow. You two did all this?”

With a satisfied sigh, Malfoy dropped into the most comfortable-looking armchair.

Harry eyed him. “Shall I get you a plate, darling?” he drawled.

“Oh, yes, please.” Malfoy let his head fall back against the headrest and smiled sappily up at Harry.

This time, Ginny did mime sticking her finger down her throat.

“Crass,” Malfoy said.

“Not as disgusting as you two.” 

Ginny grabbed a plate. She glanced sideways at Parkinson as she went. Parkinson raised an eyebrow.

Harry loaded up two plates with roast and potatoes and carrots, then Ginny—adding some salad to her own—and Parkinson, going heavy on the salad.

As Ginny had predicted, Harry did, indeed, sit on the floor. He settled at the foot of Malfoy’s chair and leaned back against it.

Ginny lowered herself across from Harry with her legs stretched out in front of her, using the empty chair behind her as a backrest. Parkinson took the old wingbacked armchair halfway between and tucked her legs up.

The food was nice. Pretty basic, actually, but it was still warm and moist and tasted good. Mum couldn’t have done a better job. Although, if Parkinson had actually cooked this meal, then Ginny was a jarvey.

None of them talked as they speared bites of meat and potato and greens, testament to how tired they all were.

Harry was the first to look up from his plate. “This is really impressive. Thank you.” He spoke to Ginny, with a polite glance at Parkinson.

Parkinson didn’t correct Harry, didn’t move to take credit for the work she’d done with the meal, even when Harry said, “It reminds me of Molly’s. The potatoes are different, though. I like the spices. Nice job.”

Ginny watched Parkinson from the corner of her vision. She knew she should correct Harry, but admittedly, she wanted to see what Parkinson would do. The other woman only took another bite of salad.

Malfoy gave Harry a little push to the back of his head. “Everything reminds you of Molly’s cooking, unless you don’t like it.”

“I’m not going to respond to that,” Harry said.

Ginny smirked. “Would that be because your future husband cooks the occasional meal in the Potter-Malfoy home?”

Harry pointed his fork at her. “I’m not responding to that either.”

Malfoy whacked him this time.

“Hey!”

“Your tact still needs practice, Potter.”

“Ow. Shit. Your aim does, too. Wanna try that right here?” Harry turned to face Malfoy and pointed at his mouth. “I dare you.”

Malfoy regarded him for a long moment, face blank. Then: “No. I have plans for that side of your head later. I’d rather not damage it.”

Ginny gave a polite cough.

Malfoy’s gaze darted to her, then back to Harry. “I mean: I have plans for that side of your head in the near future, after we are properly married.”

Parkinson gave a sniff, but when Ginny looked at her, she was absorbed in her salad.

Harry and Malfoy continued to bicker lightly while Ginny egged them on. Occasionally, Parkinson cracked a smile at something they said. And a couple of times, she glanced at Ginny, an unreadable expression on her face. Ginny kept herself from meeting Parkinson’s gaze and pulling a gargoyle face, but it was a close thing.

Parkinson’s silence that evening was noticeable enough that even Harry asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded coolly. That seemed to satisfy Harry, who went back to mopping up the last of the gravy on his plate with a carrot. Though, behind him, Malfoy gave her a considering look. Parkinson lifted her eyebrow.

When they were done eating, Ginny cleared away the plates, and Parkinson served the pudding, a decidedly fancy-looking pavlova topped with glistening strawberries.

Spoons scraped in bowls. Parkinson spelled the tent wall transparent, and they watched the sunset from the comfort of the sitting room while polishing off the meringue and fruit.

“Well, I think we should go outside for at least part of this,” Malfoy said at last, though he sounded somewhat reluctant, which probably had to do with the fact that Harry was leaned between his legs with his head practically in Malfoy’s lap, eyes closed as Malfoy carded his hair.

Harry cracked his eyes open and smiled up at Malfoy. Ginny mimed gagging, which neither of the men noticed, but Parkinson smirked. Then she seemed to remember that she had been ignoring Ginny and glanced away quickly.

“We’d better,” Harry said lazily up at Malfoy.

“All right. Let’s go before I puke up my dinner,” Ginny said, and pushed up from the floor.

A cool breeze moved through the camp, chasing away the late afternoon warmth. Ginny got a fire going while Parkinson cast a cushioning charm over a large part of the ground, and Harry and Malfoy spread blankets over it.

Harry smiled at Ginny over the flames of the fire. “This is really nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But I can’t take all of the credit.”

Harry looked at Parkinson. “Thank you.”

Parkinson’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes. _Thank you_ , ladies,” Malfoy put in.

Ginny tossed a rock at him.

The containment charm around the fire carried the smoke up and away from them, leaving their view of the night sky clear. From just above the trees, the full moon gleamed bright silver.

This was it. This was what they’d come for. Funny. It was just the moon, after all. It had never meant anything particularly special to Ginny. She wasn’t a werewolf, so it didn’t frighten her. She had never really been into potions, so its cycle didn’t mean much to her. It was beautiful, of course, and mysterious, but mostly, it was just...the moon.

Harry and Malfoy laid down together on one of the blankets, Harry settling with his head tucked into the crook of Malfoy’s arm. Malfoy murmured something in Harry’s ear with a little smirk on his face. Harry laughed and tried to push away, but Malfoy pulled him closer.

Ginny looked up to find Parkinson watching her. Ginny met her taunting gaze dead-on, refusing to be embarrassed for having been caught watching Harry and Malfoy. Those two were...sweet and disgusting at the same time. Who wouldn’t stare?

Malfoy and Harry had set out two more blankets. Ginny chose the one farthest from them because she didn’t want to have to listen to them whispering into each other’s ears. Let Parkinson take the middle blanket and deal with that.

Behind them, the fire crackled. A single shred of cloud drew slowly across the sky, briefly dimming the moon, then revealing it again.

“Well,” Ginny said. “There it is. Bright and shiny. Shining down on your virgin faces.”

Far to her right, Harry spluttered. A moment later, a pebble pinged near Ginny’s head. She bet Malfoy.

“Need to work on your aim.”

“You’re not worth the effort,” Malfoy said. Then: “Ow! Hey!”

“Ginny’s my friend, you arse.”

Closer to Ginny, but more softly, Parkinson snorted.

The sound warmed Ginny. She actually missed Parkinson’s barbs and commentary, even the annoying bits. She loved Harry and Malfoy, and she enjoyed teasing them, but the entire evening had felt strange, strained. Those two should have skipped the Sweet Moon tradition and gone on a retreat by themselves with a hot tub, champagne, and chocolate sauce. What were she and Parkinson even doing there?

Nearby, Parkinson folded one leg so her knee pointed toward the sky. It was a soft, quiet movement, but Ginny was so aware of it, she could nearly feel it. She could _still_ feel Parkinson’s mouth. If she licked her lips, she could taste the hint of lip balm.

Would she get bonus points for shutting Parkinson up for the entire night? The thought formed and then dissipated just as quickly, like a wisp of smoke from the fire.

Honestly, she didn’t care anymore about the stupid bet. She almost wished Parkinson had won.

Another cloud inched across the sky. An owl hooted. The boys’ whispers subsided into silence, and after some time, they made a suspicious show of being tired and got up. Ginny considered giving them shit for it. She was here to chaperone them, after all. But Parkinson didn’t say anything, and they were adults, and honestly, Ginny didn’t care. If they wanted to spell the tent ceiling transparent and shag under the moon, let them. This had been their idea, anyway.

“Oh no,” Parkinson said, breaking her silence for the first time that evening. She stood to follow Harry and Malfoy in. “If you’re going to shower before bed, let me first.”

Her dulcet tones made Ginny smile.

Maybe all was right with the world, after all.

Ginny continued to stare up at the stars. So much had happened beneath them. She wondered, as she sometimes did, what it had been like camping, racing to find the Horcruxes. That was something she would never share with Ron, Hermione, and Harry.

Sometimes, she almost felt a touch of envy and resentment for their bond. But that was just stupid. She’d had her own side of the war to fight, and she _didn’t_ envy them the long anxious and hungry nights. But that experience did separate her from them. Even Malfoy seemed to share something dark and inexplicable with Harry.

Strange relationships were born from the war.

Mostly, Ginny ached for the childhood she could have had, should have had. And when she really wanted to be bad to herself, she let herself feel the loss of Fred.

Ginny wasn’t sure how much more time passed. The night grew cooler. She cast a warming charm and levitated another piece of wood into the fire. Perhaps she would sleep outside.

The tent door rustled. Footsteps crunched over the ground. They were soft and light, not Harry’s clomping or Malfoy’s brisk stride. Ginny’s skin tightened. She remained motionless, hands tucked behind her head.

She glanced up. “Hey Parkinson,” she said casually.

“Weasley.” Parkinson settled back onto her spot near Ginny’s.

Ginny braced herself, but Parkinson didn’t say anything more for several minutes.

When she did, it was quiet: “Not a peep from them yet. I’m impressed.”

“I did reinforce the soundproofing,” Ginny said.

“And I have a wand.”

Ginny turned her head to regard Parkinson’s profile. “You didn’t.”

“They can’t hear us. But.”

Ginny tilted her head back and cackled.

“Merlin. You can’t do anything quietly, Weasley, can you?”

Ginny scoffed. “You’re one to talk.”

Parkinson gave a small huff. “I’m surprised we haven’t heard anything from them yet. Potter either has really bad technique at giving head or really, really good technique.”

Ginny blinked and narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think it’s Harry?”

“Please. Neither of them took a shower—I just came out—and even with a scourgify, Draco wouldn’t go for that much sweat.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. I always took him for one of those buttoned-up types till he’s in the bedroom.”

“Not if any body fluids besides come are involved. I’m surprised he’s letting Harry _touch_ him after the day we’ve had.”

The night breeze carried a clean, floral scent from Parkinson. That, and the memory of the kiss, and the fact that Parkinson had laid back down near her and was talking about body fluids made heat pool between Ginny’s legs. She had the inexplicable and impossible urge to lick Parkinson’s voice. But her mouth would do.

“I apologize.”

That caught Ginny off guard. “What?”

Parkinson sniffed. “Don’t make me say it again. I—for being obnoxious on this trip. I’m worried about Draco.”

“Please. You shouldn’t be worried about Draco. _I_ should be worried for _Harry_ , if anything. But I’m not. They’ll be fine.” She snorted. “I think marriage will be good for them—if they don’t kill each other. But I figure they would have managed that already if it were going to happen.”

Silence again. The fire popped.

“They deserve to be happy,” Parkinson said, and there was something in her voice—or something that wasn’t in her voice. The words were spoken without defense, almost wistfully.

“They do,” Ginny said softly. _We do._

Every nerve in Ginny thrummed. The moon was high above them in the sky, now—even smaller, but even brighter. A log in the fire snapped, sending up a shower of sparks.

“Do you know, there’s a rock stabbing my spine even through the cushioning charm, but I can’t complain about it, and it’s all your fault.”

Ginny swallowed. “Oh, yeah?”

“Your hexes need work, you know.”

“My hexes are fine. You’re an anomaly.”

“Hmmm.”

Ginny chewed the inside of her lip. Turned her head. Lifted an eyebrow. “And my kisses?”

“Hmm. Not bad. But they could be improved.”

“What,” Ginny said, because she _had_ been in Gryffindor, after all. “Think you can do better?”

“Weasley. I know I can.”

She smiled. It was almost too cheesy to say, so of course she had to: “Then prove it.”

A long silence stretched. She wondered if she had misstepped. 

Then, Parkinson was sitting up, firelight licking her form. A wave of floral soap scent wafted over Ginny, and then Parkinson was settling over her, straddling her hips. Parkinson tucked a chunk of dark hair behind her ear.

“Honestly, that should be too naff for me to respond to, but how could I pass up the challenge?”

“Dunno,” Ginny said, heart thundering.

Parkinson planted a hand on either side of Ginny’s head. Her gaze slid upward, toward the top of Ginny’s head. “It’s almost a cliche.”

“What?”

“Your hair. In the firelight.” She lowered herself to nuzzle Ginny’s hairline, warm breath ghosting Ginny’s skin. Her lips traced to Ginny’s temple. A flick of tongue to taste the skin there. A huff of a laugh against Ginny’s ear when Ginny shivered. “Gorgeous,” she whispered. Gave a lick to Ginny’s ear.

Ginny gasped. “That’s...not a kiss...”

“Mmm.” Parkinson slid her cheek, velvet soft, against Ginny’s. Her fringe fell like silk over Ginny’s face. She trailed her mouth over Ginny’s jaw, to her chin, which she bit lightly, then traced her mouth up to Ginny’s.

Parkinson licked the seam of Ginny’s mouth, and again, until Ginny opened for her, and then she licked inside, down, softly and smoothly, and Ginny had no idea kissing could be like this. Light and exquisite, like sliding into place.

Ginny’s hands itched to cradle Parkinson’s hips, and she didn’t stop them this time. Parkinson had changed into soft pyjama bottoms. The velvet hugged her skin, and Ginny ran her hands over it, up and over the swell of her arse, and Parkinson didn’t respond except to deepen the kiss and drop her elbows to the ground on either side of Ginny so that their bodies were flush.

Another shiver went through Ginny. It had nothing at all do with the cold, but Parkinson drew back to look at her, features flickering in the firelight. She ran a hand along Ginny’s thigh, found the wand in Ginny’s pocket, and raised an eyebrow in question. Ginny nodded. Parkinson slipped the wand free and cast a warming charm around them. Then she tapped its tip against Ginny’s forehead.

Ginny squawked at the cracked-egg sensation of warmth spilling over her. Parkinson tapped her own forehead. Her form wavered as if in a heat haze, and then Ginny was staring up at the night sky.

Looking down, Ginny saw the blanket spread over the ground, but not her body or Parkinson’s atop it. She could feel them, though, still pressed together, and she could hear Parkinson’s breathing.

“Disillusionment,” Ginny breathed. “What, don’t want to scandalize the wildlife?”

“Or the boys, if they decide to step out for a breath of fresh air.”

Ginny snorted. “I doubt it.”

Parkinson released a soft laugh. Ginny had never heard her make that sound before, and she lifted her face, trying to capture it. With both of them invisible, sound seemed as tangible as form. Form, as fleeting as breath.

Her mouth found the edge of Parkinson’s. Parkinson turned into the contact, and miraculously, they slid into another kiss without clashing noses or teeth. Ginny realized she had her eyes closed, and opened them. The moon stared down at her. She was kissing, kissing into Parkinson, but it was like neither of them existed, only the expanse of night sky. Ginny laughed, though the sound was half swallowed by Parkinson. She lifted her hands to Parkinson’s head, threaded fingers through thick, short hair. It seemed wild that they were both there, both solid. It felt as if Ginny should be able to breathe Parkinson in like air, except she was a warm, soft weight above Ginny.

The full implications of the invisibility struck Ginny, and heat stabbed her core. Her hands— Her fingers— It’d be like fucking the sky.

She gasped against Parkinson’s mouth. “Do you—“

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” She slid her hands over Parkinson’s side towards those soft pyjama bottoms and their drawstring waistband.

Parkinson froze.

So did Ginny. Her heart thundered. But a moment later, she heard it, too: a cry in the night. For a split second, Ginny thought it was an animal. Then the sound swelled and cracked, and Ginny recognized Harry’s voice.

She and Parkinson rested their foreheads together, Ginny biting her lip, holding back a laugh. From the direction of the tent, Harry panted, nearly sobbing. The sound echoed around the clearing.

Parkinson’s hand found Ginny’s wand again, Ginny felt the breeze from a swift movement, and then silence fell.

Ginny began to laugh.

“ _Circe_ ,” Parkinson swore at her. “Do you _ever_ stop that?”

“No.”

Parkinson made a strangled noise of frustration and captured her mouth again, silencing Ginny’s laughter.

Ginny stared through Parkinson up at the stars and the winking embers from the fire and thought, _You win._

**Author's Note:**

> ☀️ This fic is part of the GWB Summer Vibes gift exchange. If you'd like to spread the love, [consider reblogging this tumblr post!](https://zzledri.tumblr.com/post/630324315611693057)
> 
> [P.S.— many, many thanks to Mia for helping me pull off this reverse heist]


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